The Mountain of Simeli
by Aieshya
Summary: Sequel to “The Fire You Touch.” Aeryn Blake’s life has been dramatically altered. A year after Voldemort’s defeat, she is forced to flee to the safety of Hogwarts, where she must ally with old friends to uncover the rising evil threatening the w
1. Prologue: Mr Qu

**Prologue:  Mr. Qu**

_"You are a miracle…you are dead, you live, you die, you live again.  England has earned such a miracle!"_

_-John T. Aquino, "When the Dead Rise Up"_

Genovaise Jenkins, candy striper at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, had been told upon hiring that the Janus Thickey ward for permanent spell damage was strictly off-limits to volunteers.  So when Healer Heckleburg had told her that she was to head to the fourth floor and assist with Mr. Qu, Genovaise had nearly dropped the sheet she had been diligently folding.

"Me, mum?" she had squeaked, her ears flushing pink.  "Are – are ye sure?"

Healer Heckleburg's thin lips had tightened into an even thinner line.  She was a tall, stocky woman with a sallow complexion.  In the lime-green, standard-issue Healer robes, she looked very similar to an oversized grape.  She tended to bark her commands in a low, gravelly voice, which had caused Genovaise and the other candy stripers to secretly give her the nickname of "Toady" Burg.

"Complaints, Genny?" Healer Heckleburg had asked coolly.  "Healer Streeter's off for the day, and I'm short of help.  I'm sure even _you –" _her deep-set eyes had narrowed for emphasis "—can handle one coma patient."

Fifteen minutes later, Genovaise found herself wheeling a small handcart down the shiny tile of the fourth floor hallways.  

"I bet she 'eard me callin' her Toady to Nikki," the eighteen-year-old grumbled over the slight squeaking of the handcart, which had a wobbly wheel.  "'As it in fer me, she does.  Ever since I tried to clean up the git spitting slugs last week an' accidentally blew 'em up all over 'er…."

Her face set in a long-suffering look as she pulled up to the doors of the Janus Thickey ward.  It wasn't that she disliked working at St. Mungo's.  She enjoyed it just fine here, especially when she got to work with sufferers of incorrectly-applied love charms – those were always worth a chuckle.  But the long-term residents were something completely different.  She had heard the stories of the other candy stripers that had been assigned there, heard about the drooling patients, the glassy and empty gazes, the incoherent babbling.  Genovaise liked helping at St. Mungo's – in fact, she had been a patient once when her older brother's wand had misfired and turned her nose into a pig's snout – but the long-term residents were just, well, too _messy_.

It also didn't help that St. Mungo's had become increasingly boring over the past several months.  It had been over a year since Harry Potter had destroyed You-Know-Who and scattered his dark followers every which-way across the globe.  Genovaise had signed up to volunteer at St. Mungo's not long after the big excitement, even though her mother had protested loudly and tearfully.  It had been her chance – her chance to do something exciting!

Genovaise was secretly enamored of Muggle novels, especially romance novels, and had read several series revolving around an historic event called the "Civil War."  She had devoured the descriptions of the brave heroines in those books, with their bloodstained sleeves rolled up over their elbows, their sleek hair piled atop their heads so that tendrils cascaded down their slender necks, their eyes tired but glowing with kindness as they ever-so-gently tended to the fallen soldiers.  Although Genovaise's shoulder-length brown hair was too short to pile atop her head, and her neck was far from slender, the prospect of administering to the fallen was too good of an opportunity to pass up.  The day before she had begun work at St. Mungo's, Genovaise's excitement had rendered her unable to sleep.  The imagined praise of the soldiers rang loudly in her ears – "angel of mercy," they called her, and a "veritable Florence Nightingale" – which, although she wasn't certain, she supposed was a variety of Italian songbird that they always talked about in Muggle novels.

But to her dismay, she had discovered that none of the volunteers at St. Mungo's were allowed to tend to the soldiers of the Second Great War.  Instead, Genovaise and the other candy stripers found themselves delegated to tedious tasks like serving meals to the cauldron explosion victims on the ground floor, or changing the bedpans of the creature-induced sufferers on the first floor.  No one called her an 'angel of mercy,' except for one toothless old man who thought she was his daughter, and she had zipped out of that room as quick as her feet would carry her, you'd better believe it!

Both she and Nikki had bemoaned their rotten luck.  Of course, _only _the most important war of  _anytime _had been fought during _their lifetimes_, and they didn't even get to take care of one misfired spell injury.

"Heckleburg's just jealous 'cause she knows we'd do better 'n her," Nikki had sniffed, and Genovaise had been inclined to agree with her.  The two had resigned themselves to just watch the hustle and bustle of the Healers as they attended the war victims, but even that had petered out over the months as the injuries healed, patients recovered, and people started to go back to their normal lives.

It had been, altogether, exceedingly boring.

The doors to the Janus Thickey ward were always locked to visitors and patients, but one _alohomora_ from Genovaise opened them with ease.  The cart's wheel rattled rhythmically as she entered the ward and trotted past the beds of the long-term residents of St. Mungo's.

Healer Lauwren, standing at the shoulder of a man who was happily drooling and petting a potted plant, looked up at the sound of the cart and smiled broadly.  "Genny!" she exclaimed, straightening and pushing her horn-rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose.  "I didn't know you were allowed up here.  Heckleburg's promoted you, has she?"

Genovaise twisted her hands behind her back.  "Not likely," she retorted ruefully, trying not to stare at the man next to Healer Lauwren, but failing miserably.  He had found one of the plant's leaves and was now gnawing absently at it.  "Got sent up 'ere to check up on Mr. Qu."

Lauwren gently batted the leaf away from the man's mouth, causing him to gurgle in sudden protest.  "Oh, good.  He's down there, last bed on the left."  She motioned down the hallway without looking.

Genovaise's face scrunched up.  "Why can't ye do it?" she blurted out.  "I mean, yer the Healer fer this ward, an' all…."  Then she suddenly realized what she was saying and blushed deeply, quickly biting off the rest of her words.

Lauwren raised a dark eyebrow and stared at Genovaise for a long moment.  Then, she smiled, putting her hand on her patient's shoulder.  "Professional distance," she said breezily.  "I knew Mr. Qu before he – ended up here."  Her fingers gently twined in the hair of the drooling man, who had resumed petting his plant.  "Heckleburg wants a person who doesn't know him to take care of him, someone who doesn't have a personal attachment."

"Oh," said Genovaise.  

"It'll be good for him," Healer Lauwren said after a moment, her voice suddenly bright and cheerful again.  "A new face will do him good."

Genovaise's brow puckered.  "I thought 'e were in a coma."  She wondered if there was any truth to the rumor that tending the long-term patients for too long caused you to become dotty yourself.  She shuddered at the thought.

"He is," Lauwren said cheerfully.  "But I like to think that he'll know the difference.  Go on, Genny, you don't want to be wasting time, or Heckleburg'll have your wand."

Genovaise was inclined to disagree with Lauwren's optimistic assessment of Mr. Qu's comprehensive capabilities as soon as she rolled her rickety cart up to the still figure in the far bed.  Mr. Qu's eyes were closed and the muscles of his face were slack and sunken.  His cheeks were horribly scarred, almost as if someone had heated two irons and clapped them to his face.  He was bald as a cue ball, and Genovaise could clearly see the bones of his skull beneath his skin, like a statue covered with a wet rag.

She set to work as quickly as possible.  She tried to hide her distaste for the task, but even so, her lips curled back from her teeth as she pulled back the sheets and clumsily worked his slack limbs from his crumpled gown.  The bedpan was hurriedly removed and tapped with a wand to clean it.  Finally, Genovaise pulled a large sponge from the cart and dipped it in the accompanying bucket of soapy water.  With a wave of her wand and a muttered _"Lavatis Qu," _the sponge sprang to life and began to diligently bathe the comatose Mr. Qu, only pausing for Genovaise to lift his arm or roll him over on one side or the other.

More to distract her from the task at hand than anything, she let her eyes wander around the small enclosure as the sponge set to work.  While the bedside areas of the other long-term patients had lots of personal touches – pictures of family, brightly knitted blankets, familiar clothes – Mr. Qu's walls were bare, save for a tattered 1985 calendar of the Chudley Cannons.  Genovaise could see faint discolorations on the wall, outlines of where pictures had once hung – the faded ghosts of a former resident.  There was nothing in the room that spoke of the existence of the mysterious Mr. Qu, save for the slowly-breathing body in the bed.

"Huh," Genovaise muttered, not unkindly.  "Poor ol' sod."

She had just finished re-sheeting the bed when a polite cough echoed behind her.  She turned and found herself staring up into a pair of steel-gray eyes.  The question she had been meaning to ask dried in her throat as she stared at the man who had appeared behind her.  He was dressed entirely in black, from the fine cut of his silk robes to the black hat shadowing his chiseled features.  Although his hair was pulled back beneath the hat, Genovaise could just make out separate strands of platinum blond disappearing beneath the black velvet brim.  

_Cor blimey, _Genovaise thought weakly, gazing into his regal visage.  _'E's old enough to be me Da, 'e is, but ain't 'e a looker!  Like somethin' outta one o' me books!_

"Excuse me," the man murmured in a dulcet tone, touching one gloved hand to the brim of his hat.  "But I was informed by the Healer in charge that I could find one of my old friends back here."

Genovaise, finding her loquacious tongue suddenly tied in knots, flapped an arm towards the comatose Mr. Qu.  A smile flickered across the blond man's face, and he swept to the side of the bed in a rustle of black silk.

"Ah, Quintus," he whispered, clasping the patient's limp hand rather gingerly between his two gloved ones.  "My, but you've gone to rot." He dropped Mr. Qu's hand from his own, and it fell back onto the bed.

"Ye – ye knew 'im?" Genovaise squeaked, her voice cracking over the words.  The man's glittering gray eyes rose to her face, and the breath caught in Genovaise's throat as a slow, brilliant smile lit his countenance.

"Are you the nurse in charge of my old friend, then?" he asked, his voice rich as cream.  "My, you must be quite the prodigy, then…you don't look any older than my son…"

"Um…" Genovaise found it very hard to concentrate beneath the gray of his gaze.  "Just an…assistant."

His smile deepened.  "Really?"  He glanced at Mr. Qu and raised one pale eyebrow.  "For the attentions of such a pretty candy striper, I might not mind being a bedridden wreck myself."

Genovaise shyly smoothed her striped apron over her thick waist.  "I'm – I've almost finished enough time to become a Trainee," she mumbled, deciding to stretch the truth a bit.

The man's eyes flickered to the nametag pinned to the front of her uniform.  "I am glad indeed that my friend has been entrusted to such capable hands…Genny."  His gaze caught hers.  "Such a childish name for someone so terribly sophisticated.  It must be short for something much more suitable."

She giggled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.  "Um…it's actually…Genovaise," she mumbled shyly.

"Genovaise."  His gray eyes flashed warmly.  "How absolutely exquisite."

Blushing furiously, Genovaise turned to her pushcart and began to noisily arrange its contents.  "I'll just – I'll just leave you two to catch up," she said hurriedly, grabbing hold of the cart and starting to push it away.

"Thank you for your kindness, Genovaise, but that will be unnecessary."

Genovaise halted and turned back around.  The blond man laid Mr. Qu's hand back on the sheets and patted it gently.  Then he straightened and looked directly at her.

"I regret that I have insufficient time to visit further with my friend this day."  He stepped slowly around the bed, keeping his eyes fixed on the blushing Genovaise.  She tilted her head back as he drew near her, so close that she could see the faint lines beginning to etch around his silvery eyes.

"But I shall return another day," he murmured, his voice a soft caress.  Then, to Genovaise's wonderment, he grasped her hand with a polished movement and raised it briefly to his lips.  "And I hope that I shall see you on that happy occasion, my dear Genovaise."  He gave a slight bow and loosed her hand.  "Please, take good care of my friend until then."

Then, with a touch to his hat and a quick smile, he swept away, leaving a blissfully trembling Genovaise in his wake.  Several moments later, the girl finally remembered to breathe.

_Who cares if he's old enough to be me Da, _she thought dazedly, clasping her hand so tightly to her chest that she could feel the blood draining from her fingers.  _He's _gorgeous!  _Wait 'til I tell Nikki 'bout this ... ooh, won't she just _die!__

Genovaise finally remembered where she was, and started to put away her instruments on the pushcart.  Her face split in a wide smile as she folded up Qu's soiled gown and placed it next to the bucket of soapy water.  It was a crying shame, really, that Mr. Qu's room was so bare.  Even if he couldn't see, or didn't have any family, the place should at least look nice.

_Some pictures, _she thought, tucking a straggling strand of mousy-brown hair behind her ear.  _An' maybe some flowers, or a plant – somethin' to drive away that nasty medicinal smell.  _Though Mr. Qu wasn't awake, who was to say that he wouldn't sense the difference?

It only took Genovaise two tries to turn the pushcart around, after knocking a huge chip out of the bedside table with the left front wheel.  She beamed at the still form of Mr. Qu.  Healer Lauwren really was overworked in this wing – as soon as she put her cart away, Genovaise silently swore she would march straight up to Healer Heckleburg and ask to be moved permanently to the Janus Thickey ward.  The staff really was overworked – Genovaise would be an invaluable help to the long-term residents!

Qu's medical clipboard hung from the end of his bed, and before she left Genovaise quickly scribbled the date and time of her visit.  The words, she noticed proudly, were only _slightly _trembly.  Her eyes fell on the name printed in bold letters above the chart; she studied it for a moment, and then, humming an off-tune melody to herself, began to push the little cart back down the ward.  The loose wheel made the cart swerve in her grasp, but she barely noticed.

"See you tomorrow," she said merrily over her shoulder to the patient in the bed, "Mr. Quintus Quirrell!"

~*~*~*~*~*~****

**_Author's Note:  _**_Ladies and gentlemen, the incorrigible Aieshya has returned!  Yes!  Over a year later, the long awaited sequel to The Fire You Touch is being actualized.  I can hear your cries of joy all the way across the Internet.  And, yes, before you ask…I WILL finish more than two chapters on this (unlike the failed experiment of The House of Rimmon)._

            _On to the first chapter! –AKB _


	2. Behind the Velvet Curtain

Chapter 1:  Behind the Velvet Curtain 

"'There is a private entrance into the garden…into the worshipful Doctor's garden, where you may see all his fine shrubbery. Many a young man in Padua would give gold to be admitted among those flowers.'"

-Nathaniel Hawthorne, "Rappaccini's Daughter"

It was a place easy enough to overlook if one didn't know how to interpret the signs.  Downtown Moscow was never a place one wished to walk alone at night, and even in pairs, steps were brisk and businesslike, never lingering in the rubbish-filled gutters, the wavering shadows cast by browned-out streetlights, the alleys strewn with empty syringes and crumpled, grunting bodies.

It was down one of those alleys, past the boarded-up windows of the quarantined buildings, past the buzzing, half-lit neon signs of convenience stores, past the shadow-swathed street deals and the sudden, sporadic, kamikaze-like explosions of car mufflers backfiring – or a gun going off, but they were almost one and the same, here – that one found what one was looking for.

It was a street like any other street in any other downtown in any other city.

Almost.

During the day it functioned in the same fashion of any other substandard sub-street, with the drugs and the booze and the bums, but when darkness fell, they would come.  Well-dressed men of high station, some cloaked and slinking, some bare-headed and striding; they all oozed through the alley, carefully side-stepping the refuse and refugees that still littered the gutters, picking their way through the stinking muck to stand before the rickety door of one of the boarded-up buildings.  It was no different than the other doors of the other buildings surrounding it, save that the grimy doorknob was of bronze, not brass, and across the splintering, peeling door marched the words, painted in red:

RAPPACCINI'S GARDEN

Then the well-dressed men would cautiously look around, as if afraid that they would somehow discover a social counterpart had been following them. They would crane their heads from left to right and sigh, relieved that they had not been seen walking through such a filthy part of town. Then they would straighten their shoulders, take a deep breath – possibly of fear, certainly of anticipation – and knock.

And the door would open, and they would disappear inside.  

And, on the off chance that the well-dressed men were wrong, and they had been followed, their pursuers would know where they had gone. Even the crumpled bodies on the street knew where they had gone, knew what secrets lay behind the splintering door.

Rappaccini's Garden.  The most famous – and infamous – nightclub of the underworld.  The garden of pleasures, where the rich and powerful came to sate their desires with the beautiful and deadly creatures within.

This evening, the alley was even more busy than usual, as figure after figure knocked and slipped through the splintered door.

But it always was busy when the Lily-of-the-Valley danced.

Behind the splintered door, behind the three hundred pound bouncer who waited to receive the knock and a handful of money from the well-dressed men, gaped the entrance to a staircase, from which radiated a faint glow and the rhythmic, heartbeat-like throb of percussion.  As the stairway twined down it widened, and glowing globes appeared on the walls until one could clearly see the thick pile of the forest-green carpet, the elaborate patterns of the hangings on the walls, the ivory inlay of the mahogany handrail.  And above, when one looked up, the vaulted ceiling depicted life-sized representations of men and women frozen in the different poses of erotic pleasure, their painted faces twisted in the throes of ecstasy.

At the end of the stairway hung a thick curtain of what appeared to be leafy vines, but upon closer inspection was revealed to be an intricately embroidered green velvet curtain.  The gentlemen who came down the staircase were then stopped by another giant bouncer, who patted them down.  Another handful of money changed hands; then, when he had received a satisfactory amount of money and was assured of the lack of dangerous objects, the bouncer stationed himself before the green curtain.

"Welcome," he boomed, "to the garden of poisonous pleasures."

The curtain drew away, and the gentleman would slip inside and become immersed in the dazzling delights of Rappaccini's Garden.

It was as if they had stepped into the ruins of the hanging gardens of Babylon.  Creeping vines dotted with large, exotic flowers spidered up the walls.  Ancient-looking pillars swathed in ropes of ivy rose to the ceiling, which was painted the color of the evening sky.  Above, thousands of small electric lights changed in intensity to the beat of the music.  Deep within the foliage were set box seats, which surrounded a dance floor of gold-veined marble tile that could easily hold three hundred couples.  But at the moment the men merely watched, gazing from their box seats or the tables and chairs stationed around the edge of the stage

The long wall stretching across the back of the dance floor was as intricate as the palace of Versailles; mirrors framed by wreathed pillars constructed the bottom half, while the top half was another dance floor.  Beneath the box seats on one side wall were crimson doors with positions taken from the Kama Sutra painted on them, all positions that showed the male member of the depiction in the transports of release.  The wall opposite that had a large, lit opening, flanked by statues of the god Pan, which leered down at the dance floor in the center of the enormous room. One might well expect great things to emerge from either the doors or the opening; their magnificence called for a grand entry to be made through them.  

But no movement came from the doors or the opening, for all was focused on the dance floor.  All light, all attention, all eyes were fixed on the center of the dance floor, on the stage that had risen out of the tile, hovering over the floor like a plateau.

There, on the platform, under the adulation of a thousand lights and several hundred pairs of eyes, danced a small woman, naked save for a pair of stiletto heels.  Her skin was an unearthly white, pale as bone, and as she danced, golden patterns flickered across her skin and disappeared, almost too fast for the eye to follow.  Her long, wavy hair fell down almost to her knees and formed a diaphanous cloud around her lithe, voluptuous body.  When she tossed her head, the stage light caught glints of gold through the swirling, electrum-pale strands.

No one moved, no one breathed as she whirled and writhed, the movements so fluid and smooth that one would swear that it was unreal, that she was defying gravity.  As she curled her limbs around the pole rising from the center of the stage, the atmosphere of heightened anticipation grew, and one could hear the sudden, steadily quickening breaths of the men who formed the audience, feel the collective sweat forming on their brows, see their glazed eyes following every movement of her body.

There was something about her dance, her bone-white hair, her glowing skin, her sensuous movements, that made every man feel that they were not just watching her…they were dancing with her, pressing up against her, tasting her…and when she laughed, or her sparking blue eyes turned to the boxes, or a slow smile crossed her features, each man saw it directed to him, addressed to him, meant for him alone to see….

The music rose to a frenzied peak as the woman gyrated and twirled, and the men leaned forward, the sweat glistening from their faces, their hands clenching in the mossy fabric of the tablecloths, hearts pounding until they were short of breath again.  Feverishly the music played, faster and faster, and then, just as it seemed that the men would burst, as if she could not possibly dance any faster, the music exploded cacophonously, the lights flared, and the woman sunk gracefully to the floor of the platform.

A heartbeat passed.  Then the audience rose to their feet, screaming, clapping, whistling, their pulses still racing in their ears and the memory of her taste lingering in the back of their throats.

The woman stood, and the applause grew even wilder as she bowed.  

"Lily-of-the-Valley!"

The plateaued stage slowly sunk to rejoin the marble tile of the floor, and as Lily stood, keeping her head lowered demurely, a heavyset man appeared, holding his arms out to the crowd like a circus barker, as if he had just performed a magic trick.  His red waistcoat sparkled in the brilliant spotlights.  

"I seek a man," he cried, his black mustache bristling with the movement of his lips.

"That's what we've heard, Brodman," yelled a sudden voice from a shadowy box.  

Rappaccini's Garden was flooded with throaty laughter.

Brodman shot a warning glance in the direction of the box from which the voice had come and held his arms up again.  

"I seek a man," he repeated, his strong voice carrying over the noise of the audience.  "A strong man, a man who lives for the thrill of danger –"

"Get on with it, Brodman!"  shouted the voice again.

"A man," Brodman boomed, "who would risk all, would taste the forbidden fruit, would sip from the poisoned cup, for one perfect, passionate embrace from the Lady Lily –"

He flung his arm towards the small woman, who lifted her head for the first time since her dance had ended and raised her arms in a sensual pose.  The audience roared.  Hands began to wave violently in the air from the shadows of the boxes; looking closely, one could see the well-dressed gentlemen waving money, flowers, even glittering handfuls of precious jewelry.

Brodman's eyes flickered to the shadowy box from where the heckler's voice had emerged.  He crooked one large finger.  "You!" he cried as two assistants dressed like satyrs threaded their way towards the person he had indicated.  "You sir, would you risk your life for –"

"Aw, stow it," the man yelled as he was led out onto the marble tile.  The surrounding audience jeered, but the man merely flashed a grin and waved the satyrs away.  His dress was nonchalant but expensive, and the half-open shirt he wore was of the finest Egyptian cotton. Unlike many of the other men present, his face was young and unlined, but his eyes revealed him to be a man who had seen and done too much.

"I've heard your rubbish before," he said in an undertone to the circus barker, then turned his attention to the woman.  He grinned, a gesture made lewd by mocking curl of his lip.  "But I've never seen anything like her before tonight. She had better be worth it."

Turning back to the crowded audience, he reached deep into his trouser pocket and slowly pulled out a thin strand of diamond fire.  With a roguish wink, he tossed it to the pale woman, who caught it in a graceful motion.  Brodman stepped forward, but the young gentleman merely put one hand on Brodman's waistcoat, stopping him in his tracks.  

"It's the lady I'm here to see," he scoffed, giving the red-coated man a mock shove.

As the crowd booed, the young man planted himself in front of the pale woman and leered down at her.  She was a full head shorter than him, and had to tilt her face fully back to look into his features.  Her face, glowing unearthly in the twinkling lights of the stage, was expressionless.

"Okay, Lady Lily," he sneered into her half-lidded eyes.  "Give us a kiss."

His hands shot out, clamped onto her bare hips, and jerked her roughly to him.  Silence descended upon the crowd.  Despite the fact that he, being the lucky one, was universally hated by every member of the audience, they all leaned forward as his head dipped down, voyeuristically participating in what he had just paid for.

The instant her lips touched his, the audience heard a muffled, agonized scream, like the sound of a mortally wounded bird of prey. The young man tore his lips from the woman's and backed away from her. He stood for a moment, an arm's length away from her, weaving where he stood. Then he twitched violently, once, twice, and finally crumpled in a heap at the Lady Lily's feet.  The Lily-of-the-Valley looked down at him calmly, and then turned her pale face to the audience and smiled slowly.

"He didn't ask politely!" Brodman shouted as a swell of derisive laughter bubbled through the hall.

As the satyrs rushed forward to pull the unconscious man from the floor, there was a sudden crackle like thunder, and a huge puff of colored smoke roiled out over the stage from the opening flanked by the statues of Pan.  A blinding light flashed on the dance floor, and as the audience looked away, shielding their eyes, no one noticed the small, long-haired figure scampering away through an exit hidden behind a statue of Aphrodite.

The darkness of the backstage wing was a sudden contrast to the brilliant lights of the stage, and the small figure thrust her arms out before her, blinking furiously to clear her vision as she stepped carefully around the milling figures and over the cords winding across the floor.

"Nice going," called a low, teasing voice.  A rustle of fabric echoed through the air, and a wadded-up dressing gown suddenly struck the dancer on the side of her face.

"You've frightened her away!" boomed Brodman's voice from the stage, which was answered by a discontented groan from the audience.

She grinned, catching the gown and shaking it open.  "That's the best part of this job," she exclaimed, shrugging her shoulders into the robe and belting it at the front.  She drew close to the wall as two scantily dressed women and a half-naked man pattered past her towards the stage door.  "Giving those smug bastards a taste of what they paid for."

Laughter answered her as she slipped past the immediate backstage and over through a door at the end of one wall.  She entered a room where rows of brightly lit makeup tables lined the walls.  With a sigh, she threw herself into the seat of one whose mirror read "LILY-OF-THE-VALLEY" and dropped the diamond thread onto the countertop.  The unearthly paleness of her skin had fled and left a natural peachy-rose hue, shadowed only by the thick stage paint layered over her features.  Her hands went up to her hair and, hooking her thumbs in the band of her wig, she pulled the electrum-pale hair off her head and plopped it on the waiting dummy with the same smooth motion.  The wig cap still covering her head made her look startlingly bald.

A tall, slender woman plopped down on the corner of the table.  Her rust-red hair was piled atop her head, and the pink silk robe she wore hung open to reveal a silver-studded corset.  

"Got another set tonight?" the other woman asked, lifting one long leg to check the zipper of her thigh-high boot.

"Nope."  The Lily-of-the-Valley flicked the wig cap off her head, and a thick fall of reddish-brown curls bounced down about her face.  She dug her fingers into the chin-length coif and massaged her scalp.  "Since Larkspur twisted her ankle and I did the set with Delphinium last night, I get off the floor early."

"Lucky," the redhead snorted, leaning over to check her lipstick in the mirror.

"Nuh-uh," the Lily-of-the-Valley countered, rolling her eyes.  "Charlie put me on first call for the private rooms, so it'll still be a late evening."  She wagged a finger at her friend.  "So there's no point in envying me."

The other woman groaned.  "That's all yours, girl.  You can have that thankless job."

The woman called Lady Lily raised an eyebrow at the redhead through the mirror.  "The prostitute is telling _me _that I have a thankless job?"

The other woman grinned, her beautiful features becoming sly.  "Hey, I work once an hour.  You work twice as hard, if you'll excuse the pun, in the same amount of time."  She tapped one red-varnished nail against the thread of diamonds atop the counter.  _"And _I get twice as many pretty baubles as you do."

The Lady Lily laughed and rolled her eyes.  "Thanks for reminding me, Flann," she retorted, picking up the string of jewels and depositing it into a small jewelry box.  Her slate-blue eyes flickered to the mirror and, sighing, she twisted a curl of red-brown hair between her fingers.  "Look, I'd love to chat, but you've got to get to your room and I've got to get dressed and get this hair of mine finished.  I'll talk to you tomorrow morning – have good luck tonight, okay?"

As Lady Lily turned back to the mirror, a hand caught hers, and a cold stream of silvery coils slithered into her palm.  

"Not so fast, pretty," the redhead whispered into her ear, hugging her arms around the smaller dancer's neck.  "Each night you give me this to hold, and each night you forget it.  You should make an effort to remember, because someday I might just decide to walk off with it.  It's lovely enough to tempt a saint, and you know none of us here are quite of that caliber."

Before the Lily-of-the-Valley could respond, the other woman planted a quick kiss on her cheek and was off in a flurry of silk.

"Good show tonight," she called over her shoulder before disappearing down the lit hallway.

The small woman pulled her hand before her and uncurled her fingers.  The bright light from the makeup tables glistened off the setting of intricate silver filigree.  Blue fire glowed from the embedded sapphire, as big as her fingernail.  The dancer threaded her fingers through the delicate silver chain, letting the pendant drop towards the floor.  Then, with a smooth motion, she swept it around her neck and fastened the clasp.  The deep V of her dressing gown framed the pendant perfectly against her skin.

And although she knew that the tall redhead had already disappeared down the hallway and could no longer hear her, the small woman whispered to her anyway as she gazed into her reflection in the mirror.

"Thanks, Flann," murmured Aeryn Blake.

~*~*~*~*~*~****

**_Author's Note:  _**_Nice surprise at the end of this chapter, eh?  ;D  Don't worry – explanations are forthcoming in Chapter 2._

**_Rappaccini's Garden _**_– those of you who have not read "Rappaccini's Daughter" by Nathaniel Hawthorne should do so.  Signor Doctor Rappaccini is famed throughout Padua for his famous garden of beautiful flowers, but it is whispered that the blooms are not all they appear…that the famous doctor has tempered with nature and fostered the plants into creations so poisonous that merely to touch them would be lethal.  Filled with potent symbolism, this story is one of Hawthorne's best.  _

Anyone who can tell me the CORRECT explanation why Aeryn's stage name is "Lily-of-the-Valley" wins two Galleons.  Actually, since I'm a poor college graduate seeking unemployment, you'll just get a shout-out in the next chapter.

_Also, if anyone knows of anyone who can use a skilled Public Relations specialist who speaks fluent French, email me and let me know… ;D_

_Thanks as always to my lovely beta-readers Rosmerta and Kwinelf for their assistance on this chapter (and to Kwin for the location of the Garden and making this chapter over 15K).  Check out Rosmerta's lovely tales at fanfiction.net, and Kwinelf's at either sugarquill.net or here at Schnoogle._

_The next chapter will be just a little bit later because…I've been commissioned to write a book!  Now, don't get TOO excited.  It's just a guidebook about Purdue University.  However, I do get royalties on it, and you can look me up at Amazon.com.  WHEE!  My writing career is underway.  I'll let you know more about that in future chapters (when it will be published – quite soon – and how you can get a copy of it, because I know you all want to help me get some lunch money).  It only costs $6…and hopefully there will be some humor…I mean, come on, a university of engineers is always funny…_

_That's all for now, lovelies.  Hope you enjoyed this chapter – see you on the next round! –AKB_


	3. There Was a Girl

Chapter 2:  There Was a Girl… 

                        Well I guess that push has come to this 

_                        So I guess this must be shove_

_                        But before you throw those stones at me_

_                        Tell me what is your house made of?_

_                                    -Ani DiFranco, "Glass House"_

The past six years had not been easy.

When she had stepped from Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters that July afternoon – a lifetime ago – Aeryn had sworn to herself that she would not look back, that her entire future was ahead of her, that something exciting and glorious was waiting ahead.  She had promised herself that although one door had closed in her life, another would open.  Eventually.  Something good would rise from the ashes of what she had endured.

She had returned to Surrey, to Little Whinging, back to the life she had once considered to be normal.  Her landlord had raised his eyebrows when she entered his office to pick up the key to her flat, but he had said nothing more than to remind her that her lease was almost up, and would she be signing on for another year?  The flat had been dusty with disuse, and she had attacked it with her cleaning rags and mops, and tried once again to fit into the rooms that suddenly seemed so drab, so shabby, so bereft of life.

Hogwarts – the wizarding world – her friends – all these she forced herself to push from her mind, to lock away in her memory.  _Just for a while_, she consoled herself.  Until she could settle back into normalcy, until she could find her bearings in a world that suddenly pitched and heaved beneath her feet.

Old employers had been contacted, and she found several who were willing to take her back as a housekeeper.  And so she tried to settle back into the old, familiar routine, which should have been as easy to fall back into as a hand slipping into an old glove.  But the glove, though once so comfortable, no longer fit, and stretched uncomfortably against the new shape of her skin.

_Just for a while, _she told herself when the glove chafed her, when it constricted around her so tightly that she could scarcely breathe.  _Until I get my feet back under me, and then I'll move on.  I swear it.  _And then she would open her battered old trunk and leaf through spellbooks until the constricting feeling subsided.  Then, and only then, would she draw out her map of Europe and pore over it until her eyes burned from following the black tracks of highways and roads.  London.  Edinburgh.  Barcelona.  Paris.  Geneva.  Places she would visit, places she would go, places where she would try and start over.  Hope, no matter how faint, illuminated the horizon.

And then, sudden as a flash of lightning, it had all changed.

The mutant threat exploded across the globe.  In most major cities, 'recommended' mutant registration was a part of life, as were protective collars that – it was said – kept 'accidents' from occurring.  And Aeryn was aware of this, had been aware of this, had watched the news diligently each night until she was physically ill.  Once, in a state of panic, she had considered registering – but a moment had been all she needed rebel from the thought of being collared like an animal. Though a little wary of her solitary insurrection, she had been reassured by the fact that the supposed threat had not changed, and soon the news moved to other issues, to other stories.  

But then the Moderators of the Mutant Registration Commission descended upon Little Whinging with their blood testers, their DNA analyzers, their slick grins, and their cold, hard eyes.

_Suspected mutant terrorist group lurking, _exclaimed the television announcer when Aeryn flicked on the news and kneeled before the glowing screen, wrapping her trembling arms around herself.  _Necessary precaution.  Indefinite amount of time.  Cooperation is essential._

With fevered haste she had packed, throwing some clothes and food into a knapsack and tucking her wand into her belt.  She had slipped out the door of her flat and had gotten all the way to the main road when they caught her.  A multitude of bright torches beamed into her face, blinding her, and all she could do was stand there, blinking stupidly until a middle-aged man wearing the pea-green and black uniform of the MRC stepped forward.

"'Scuse me, miss."  His voice was brusque as he flashed his badge.  "I'm gonna have to test your blood."

She should have run.  She should have lashed out with her powers and fled.  She should have drawn her wand, turned the man into a toad, and stepped on him.  But all she could do was stand there dumbly as the man stepped forward and lifted her limp hand.  With practiced ease, he slipped a small device onto her index finger.  A stab of pain bit into her fingertip; an instant later, the device began to whir and chatter.  

Instantly, there was the soft click of guns being cocked all around her, and she suddenly sensed the encompassing wall of figures surrounding her on all sides.  

The man's gaze glittered suddenly upon her, and Aeryn shrank back at the menace in his eyes.

"Well, well," he murmured coldly, his face going hard.  "It's looks like we've got another drifter, men."

And before she could react – before she could even twitch – a thick metal collar was clamped around her neck.  

They had taken her into town with a gun barrel jammed into the small of her back, and pushed her through the warren halls of a building and into a small, windowless room.  

She only tried to lash out once with her powers, when a grim-faced woman stripped Aeryn's clothes off and discovered her wand.  Along with her pendant, Aeryn's wand was her most prized possession, and the only thing that linked her with the life she had all too reluctantly left behind. She was not about to just let it be taken from her. Not without a fight.

She had lunged for it with her mind, but reeled backwards suddenly as her mental powers met a hard, blank wall.  When a heavy pair of hands slipped around her neck to remove her pendant, she attacked physically, her fists flying and her teeth bared.  A cattle prod to her back had taken her down, and when she had the strength to raise her head, the wand and pendant, as well as her clothes, had disappeared from the room.

The grim-faced woman had stuck countless needles into Aeryn's naked body, drawing blood until she was light-headed and nauseous.  Then came the questioning, and the fingerprinting, and more needles, and then more questioning, until all of Aeryn's thoughts blurred and congealed together into one huge, painful, confused mess.  

And then she was suddenly standing before a desk, dressed, her muscles shaking as she signed her name to a paper filled with miniscule writing.  Not that she had any idea what was on it – they had made certain of that.  Two men, each of them half as large as Hagrid, flanked her shoulders.  The thick collar she wore pinched her throat.  She could feel her wand in her belt, yes, they had returned her wand with her clothes, but her pendant was missing.  Even the weight of her collar could not mask the sudden nakedness she felt around her neck.

One of the men spoke.  His voice was gruff, and his eyes glazed to a spot on the wall somewhere just over the top of her head.  After a moment, Aeryn realized he was speaking to her.  She had just completed registration, he said.  She would have to pay a fine for not coming forward of her own free will…another fine for living in non mutant-accepted housing…she would return to her residence this evening, but in the morning, patrol members of the MSC would escort her to a suitable living area…her collar could only be removed by a special key belonging to the MSC, but herself she was never to remove it, under the penalty of jail time and another fine…if for some reason the lock mechanism was tampered with, it would sound an alarm and release a capsule of poison gas attuned to her body chemistry that was embedded in the collar, which would immobilize her until the MSC responded….

His mouth continued moving, but Aeryn had long stopped listening.

When he had stopped, she had asked, as politely as she could manage, for her pendant back.  The request earned her a hard slap against the back of her head, and a few moments later she found herself thrust outside onto the street.  The scattered streetlights cast ghostly shadows that pooling in the lengthening cracks of the asphalt.

Aeryn swallowed hard, her head still woozy from the loss of blood.  With clumsy movements, she turned back to look at the door she had just come from, noticed the two green-and-black garbed guards standing on either side of the entrance, and then slowly turned and limped away into the shadows behind the streetlamps.

Had the guards' eyes been able to follow her into the shadows, they would have seen her bent form suddenly and halt jerkily in mid-limp, like a marionette stilled by the hand of its puppetmaster.  They may or may not have heard the strangled, quickly-silenced cry that tore from her throat, but they would have seen her folded body slowly uncurl until she stood to her full height, her shoulders thrown back as if the pain had dropped from them like an old garment.  She turned, and what might have been a soft chuckle echoed from her lips.

The soldiers, had they been watching, might have seen the brilliant, malevolent grin that split her face, but hidden in the shadows as she was, they would not have seen that her eyes had inexplicably lightened from slate-blue to the color of forget-me-nots.

For one wounded, she moved lightning-quick.  Her fingers wrapped around the slender shaft of wood in her belt, yanked it free, and leveled it towards the building.  Her lips moved and she spoke something under her breath.

An instant later, the building erupted in a blinding ball of flame.

The sound of the explosion split the night, masking the girl's sudden, agonized shriek, and no one was there to see her straightened form crumple, see the frenzied gleam in her eyes flash once and then dissipate as she gasped in pain.  For an instant she stared into the flames, her face a mask of disbelief, her slate-blue eyes wide with horror.  She took a hobbling, pained step forward, but then stopped.

There was nothing she could do now.

Her eyes fluttered shut, and she drew a deep, struggling breath.  Then, lifting her gaze, she licked her lips and raised her wand again, pointing it towards the towering inferno.

_"Accio _pendant," she whispered, her voice breaking on the last syllable.  

A flash of silver ricocheted through the flickering flames and snapped into her waiting palm.  It was slightly warm and she curled her trembling fingers over it.  There was a sparkle as she slid it into her pocket, and as sirens began to wail in the distance, the young mutant spun on her heel and sprinted away.

*          *            *

The collar with the gleaming red stone that kept her mutant powers at bay also marked her in the new population of outcasts.  That night she fled to London, but as soon as the residents saw her collar, they shunned her.  Doors shut in her face; stores that were hiring turned a deaf ear to her requests.  Exhausted and hungry, she collapsed on the streets to sleep among the brethren of her kind, covering herself with newspapers atop sewer grates.

In her dreams, the explosion of the building played again and again.

She did not know how she retained her magical abilities while her other powers were locked from her, but she was too thankful for this one small blessing to ask why.  Her wand kept her alive.  She could Summon food from store windows when the shopkeepers weren't looking, which was enough to keep her from starving.  A few well-placed spells and her years of karate training protected her from the street thieves, and simple comfort charms gave her a modicum of relief when she slumped to the sewer grates at the end of a long day.  But no _alohomora _could remove the collar, nor any illusion she could cast hide her from the detectors stationed on the entrances to every building.  And even if she could have somehow hidden the collar away, the obligatory blood testers everywhere, on the subway, in the stores, would have belied her disguise.  

She knew that she had to move on, and fast.

Mutants required a plethora of papers to travel outside the country, but one wave of the wand provided ones that passed even a rigorous examination.  Paper Muggle money was required as well, but Aeryn found to her dismay that her wand was incapable of creating it.  She drew all that remained from her nearly-depleted bank account, praying that it would last her until she could find someplace to stay.  She boarded the train in London, shuffled to the mutant section in the back, and sat there until she arrived in Geneva, Switzerland a day and a half later.

Several miles outside of Geneva, in a tiny neighboring town, she had found employment – an elderly shopkeeper, nearly blinded by cataracts, had needed an extra pair of hands to sweep up and close the shop.  He spoke no English and she spoke no French, but one surreptitious wave of her wand rendered them able to understand each other perfectly.  The pay was hardly anything, but it was enough for her to rent a cheap room and feed herself once a day.  The Mutant Registration Commission had not yet sunk its claws completely into Switzerland, and so Aeryn lived there for six months, the quiet of the small town a peaceful relief.  But when the MRC began to tighten its grip around the town, Aeryn wished the shopkeeper a fond farewell, gathered the little money she had earned, and hopped a train out of town.

Next it was Germany, in the small village of Netphen.  Aeryn worked in a bakery, helping the baker in the back rooms with the rising dough, and working the counter from time to time.  The stoic people were kind in their own way, smiling when they spoke to her, and only occasionally letting their eyes flick to the collar around her neck.  She kept to herself and a year went by.  She had grown comfortable enough to send word to her friends and receive letters from them in return.  They had been concerned about her, they said – Hermione in her wordy, logical, fact-spewing way as she breathlessly discussed what she had heard from the Muggle papers; Ron in his short, hesitant sentences so like his awkward, hesitant way of questioning that it brought a smile to Aeryn's face; and Harry, who did not question, did not probe, but merely wrote about his life, what had been going on at Hogwarts since she had left, slipping in _It is so good to hear from you, _and then later, _I miss you, _and finally, _Be careful – I think of you often._

It had seemed, for a while, that she had found a place where she could stay.  But when the town residents began to stare openly at her and point fingers, and would not meet her eyes when she spoke to them, she had packed her few belongings, took what cash she had, and moved on.

It had worsened from that point on.  Luxembourg, Paris, Brussels, Amsterdam…it was all the same.  She would be employed for a short amount of time, and then unexpectedly she would be fired and find herself on the street, a small amount of cash in her hand as she blinked back the painful tears that welled, unbidden, in her eyes.  And she was not the only victim.  In every city, in every place she visited, she saw fellow mutants on the street, their clothes in tatters, their lean faces dirty and haggard with resignation.  Every time she moved on, she felt her heart sink a little bit lower.  Letters came from her friends, but she had stopped answering them.  Eventually, the correspondences faded away entirely.

There were other alternatives beside petty jobs to make money.  When dusk fell, Aeryn had seen the mutants standing on the street corners, their lifeless eyes not quite focusing on the cars that would stop before them, their faces expressionless as they opened the car door and stepped inside.  It would have been easy, much easier than pounding on closed doors, than speaking to deaf ears.  But she turned her head away from those cars, recoiled away from the offers, pulling her mind away from the churning knot of memories writhing within her, trying to shut out the quiet, sneering voice within her that laughed mockingly.

Nearly four years after she had left Hogwarts, Aeryn stepped off the train into the city of Moscow.  Had anyone who had known her before seen her, they would have not recognized her.  Her reddish-brown hair was overgrown and hung in dry clumps.  Her slate-blue eyes were dull and were startlingly prominent in her face, which was hollow-cheeked and wasted from lack of food.  Her dirty clothes hung on her like a tent, and she was as grimy as the last city in which she had slept.  She had straightened, thrown her ragged knapsack over one shoulder and marched resolutely from the station.

Moscow's opportunities were depressingly slim, but at least her collar did not stigmatize her – it merely made her invisible.  Often her fingers went to the pendant at her throat, and she would toy with it vacantly, her eyes staring off into the distance.  She had not sold it in all the years because the thought of not having it was even bleaker than her empty stomach.  Now she could not risk selling it, for fear that the buyer would think she had stolen it and turn her in to the police.  Instead, she kept it hidden beneath her ragged clothes, lest its glimmer betray her to the street thieves.

After a week, she had found a position in a twenty-four hour kiosk as the night clerk, selling vodka, cigarettes, snacks, and phone cards.  It was in the worst section of town imaginable, with deals occurring outside the store doors and druggies shooting up in the back alley, but Aeryn no longer cared.  The money was hardly enough to keep her alive, but it was enough, and so she stayed.  It was not long before the griminess, the abject misery, and the starkness of it all became nothing more than a slightly uncomfortable reality.

*          *            *

An average of two thousand rubles a week was far below the Russian minimum requirement of four thousand rubles a week, but as a mutant, Aeryn had resigned herself to taking what she could get.

She had been working at the kiosk for several months when the man working second shift – Ivan – had fallen ill, and Aeryn was called in to fill his position as well as her own.  She had been elated at the thought of making a few extra rubles.  Her hours had been cut over the past few weeks, and eating had become more of a luxury than a necessity.  It was by the skin of her teeth that she had been able to pay her rent that week, and her landlady had made it perfectly clear what she would do if Aeryn didn't pay in full for this week.  

The kiosk had been quite empty for the entire shift.  A Moscow newspaper was sitting on the counter, and Aeryn had been tracing the Cyrillic symbols with her eyes when the door opened, sending the bell into a jingling dance.  _"__Zdrastvoyte," _she muttered without looking up.

Red-varnished nails clicked on the counter beneath her nose.  _"Gde Ivan?" _demanded a low, female voice.

The heavily accented Russian words, mangled almost to incomprehensibility, jerked Aeryn's head up.  A tall, slender woman leaned over the counter, her flaming-red hair twisted into a knot at the top of her head.  Her features were strikingly beautiful, with full, pouting lips and fine, high cheekbones.  But Aeryn's eyes were immediately drawn to the woman's neck.  She wore a thin collar of burnished silver with intricate patterns etched into it, and in the center smoldered a thumbnail-sized red stone, a twin of the one embedded in the collar around Aeryn's neck.

The woman's hazel eyes flickered to Aeryn's throat and then back up to her face.  _"Gde Ivan?" _she asked again, but the demanding edge had fled from her words.  

"Ivan went home sick," Aeryn blurted in English.

The woman started, and then her face lit in a brilliant smile.  "You're American!" she exclaimed in a bright Midwestern accent.  "Thank God!  I can't speak a lick of Russian, and Ivan was the only person working here who spoke English.  Where're you from?"

"M-Michigan," Aeryn stammered, her tongue tripping over a language she had not spoken in three years.  Her eyes remained fixed on the woman's delicate collar.

"Nice state.  I'm a farm-raised Iowa girl myself."  The woman stretched one arm out and pointed a slender finger at the rack of cigarette boxes behind the counter.  "Grab me a pack of Marlboros, would you?"

With clumsy fingers, Aeryn plucked a pack from the shelf and handed it to the redhead.  "What—" the words were hard to find, and she had to scramble through her memory "—what's an Iowa girl doing in Moscow?"

The woman's eyes rested pointedly on the metal ringing Aeryn's neck.  "Same reason as you, pet."  White teeth flashed in a grin as she dug in her large purse and pulled out a wallet.

Dumbly, Aeryn rang up the price of the cigarettes, her mouth suddenly very dry.

"You got a name?" the redhead asked, extricating two fifty thousand ruble notes and laying them on the counter.

A smile, rusty from disuse, twitched Aeryn's cheeks as she began to make change.  "It's Aeryn.  Aeryn Blake."

"Frieda Flannery, but call me Flann, everyone does."  She waved away the change that Aeryn handed her.  "Keep it," she exclaimed, tapping the cigarette package sharply against her palm.

Aeryn blinked and stared down at the money.  It was a little over four thousand rubles.  "But—" she started, torn between the sudden gurgle of her stomach and the lurch of her stubborn pride.

"No buts, Aeryn Blake," Flann said breezily, ripping open the package and pulling out a cigarette.  "See you around."  And with another grin and a wave, she ducked out of the kiosk, leaving a very confused Aeryn in her wake, who stared down at the handful of rubles as an emotion she had not allowed herself to feel in years began to stir inside of her.

Ivan had been sick for the rest of the week.  Each day Flann had returned to the store, bought a package of cigarettes, and left the change with Aeryn.  She waved aside Aeryn's protests, smiling oddly each time she did so.  Then her gaze would cool, and her eyes would sweep over Aeryn in a hard, almost appraising way.  She would laugh, take her cigarettes, and head out the door.

Although Aeryn enjoyed the kindness, it was beginning to make her feel more than a little uncomfortable.

*          *            *

"Do you know how to dance?" Flann had asked abruptly one afternoon.

Aeryn glanced at her oddly as she grabbed a packet of Marlboros.  The redhead was gazing at her with an unreadable expression on her face.

"You've got muscles," the other woman said, pointing at Aeryn's arm.  "At least, you used to.  Were you a dancer?"

"No."  Aeryn handed her the cigarettes.  "I did karate."

Flann nodded thoughtfully.  With one smooth motion, she ripped open the package and pulled out a cigarette.  "Did you learn karate quickly?"

Aeryn shrugged as Flann put the cigarette between her lips.  "Why?" she asked, watching the woman flick her lighter and turn the end of the cigarette into smoldering cinders.

Flann took a long drag and blew a cloud of smoke into the air, her hazel eyes narrowing.  Aeryn glanced around the kiosk, shifting her weight back and forth between her feet.  Through the grimy front door, she could see the local bums shuffling back and forth along the trash-strewn street.

"I think you'd do," Flann murmured.

Aeryn's attention jerked back to her.  "Do what?"

Flann blew another smoke ring into the air.  "Ever heard of Rappaccini's Garden?"  One red-varnished nail scratched her temple.  

Aeryn shook her head.  The bell jangled as the door opened; a ragged man meandered into the store, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his heavy coat.

"I work there," Flann said, flashing a quick smile at the man and then turning her gaze back to Aeryn.  "You should, too."

A job!  For a second Aeryn's heart leapt, thinking of her dwindling monetary resources.  But then she saw Flann's collar, the fine cut of her clothes, and the way she slapped enormous notes on the counter without a second thought.  She bit her lip, glancing at the tall redhead warily.

"What sort of work do you do?" she asked cautiously.

Flann was silent for a moment, her face blank as she regarded Aeryn through a cloud of smoke.  She tapped her cigarette, sending a rain of ashes to the pitted floor of the kiosk.

"I'm a hooker."  Her voice was neutral.

A sickening thud echoed in the pit of Aeryn's stomach, and she felt her cheeks flame as blood rushed into them.  Saliva filled her mouth and she swallowed hurriedly, the gesture difficult by the sudden lump knotting in her throat.  Blindly, she turned to the cash register and began ringing up Flann's sale.

_—can't escape it, can you, pretty bird—_

"No," she choked finally.

Flann put a hand on her shoulder and Aeryn almost flinched.  "But _you _don't have to do that."  Her voice was eager, almost too eager.  "We've got plenty of hookers, but Charlie's always looking for dancers, especially if they can pick up stuff quickly."  She let go of Aeryn's arm and started rummaging in her bag.  "Look, you should at least go to see him – I've mentioned you to him – depending on what powers you have, I mean, you could make a killing, and we could _really _use you –"

"Powers?"  The word tore from Aeryn's lips, as rough and ragged as a scream.  A bubble of hysteria was welling in the back of her throat and she drew a shuddering breath.  With one trembling hand she motioned violently to the thick, heavy collar around her neck.  "I'm wearing _this," _she said, feeling her voice waver on the edge of laughter.  "I don't think – my powers – will be much use to anyone – when I can't use them –"

"But we take them off," Flann insisted.  "Inside.  When we work.  That's why they want us, hon, that's why the Garden makes so much money.  Because of what we are."  She leaned further over the counter, her face very close to Aeryn's.  "Because all the collarless think we're dangerous, and they'll pay good money for that, to test their luck with us."

Something resembling a sob escaped Aeryn's lips, and she punched the buttons on the register wildly, and felt a stab of pain as one fingernail bent and broke.

The hand disappeared from her shoulder and a small white card was thrust under her nose.  "Here."  Flann's voice had softened.  "Look, I'm not forcing you or anything, but you really should go and talk with Charlie – Charlie Brodman.  The address is on this."

Aeryn carefully looked up at her.  The redhead's face was set in a mask of pity, the hazel eyes glowing sympathetically.  Sudden anger twisted inside her, and she slammed the change down on the countertop, feeling her gaze harden.

"Thank you for your concern," Aeryn growled stiffly.  "But as you see, I already have a job."

Flann's face went blank.  Her lips tightened slightly, and with one hand, she picked up the change and slid it back into her purse.  "Yes, you do," she murmured.  Without another word, she turned on her heel and stalked out the door, the bell jingling in her wake.

The next day, Ivan had been well enough to return to work.  Aeryn ceded the second shift and went back to her regular night hours.  Several weeks passed without incident.  Every once in a while, Ivan would mention that the _kalancha, _the tall woman, had asked after her, but Aeryn had no messages to pass back to her.  The money from her extra work was swiftly depleted, and it was not long before she had returned to just scraping by.

And then one evening she came to work and there was an older woman there, the woman from the first shift, a collarless woman who glared at Aeryn and turned away.  With a plummeting feeling in her stomach, Aeryn had gone into the back room and found her boss waiting for her, his face expressionless as he held her paycheck in his hand.  He was sorry, he had said, but sales had been slow, and he had to cut someone…he hoped she understood…and she had been firmly but gently helped onto the street, the door swinging shut behind her.

She had searched, pounding the pavement until she collapsed each night with feet that felt as if they would detach from her ankles.  She had searched grimly, despairingly, and when the last of her money had finally disappeared and she had been evicted from her room, she again slept on the streets and continued to search doggedly for employment, all to no avail.

While passing a window one afternoon, she had caught a glimpse of her reflection and stopped, staring dumbly at the image of herself.  The emaciated face, the filthy clothes – and the eyes, hollowed by shadows, and so completely lifeless that she choked, turning away hurriedly and ducking her head so that passers-by would not see the tears starting to roll down her cheeks.

That evening it had rained.

Huddling in a doorway, Aeryn had scrunched up into a tiny, shuddering ball, clutching her softly glowing wand to her chest to try and warm herself.

On the street grate across from her, wrapped in newspapers, was the thin figure of a young boy, his face turned up to the sky, the sheeting rain splashing across his slack cheeks, his matted hair, his thick and rusting mutant collar.

Aeryn had stared at him for five full minutes before a crackle of lightning split the sky, illuminating the two dark sockets where carrion birds had picked out his eyes.

For a long, long time, Aeryn sat there, staring at the boy's corpse.  The thunder roiled overhead.  Then slowly her limbs uncurled and she stood shakily, pushing her soaked hair out of a face that had suddenly grown as hard as flint.  One hand dipped into the pocket of her ragged jeans and fished out a small card, sodden and beginning to tear.  Her eyes darted across the streaky writing, and then, with a final glance at the dead boy, she stepped from the doorway and started walking down the street.  

The address on the card led her deep into the worst section of town, but in the blinding rain she passed through unmolested.  Her fingers wandered over the letters painted thickly onto the door.  Back went her shoulders, up went her chin; she drew a deep breath and rapped sharply on the splintering wood.

There was no answer.  She knocked again, louder this time.

The door suddenly flung itself open beneath her knuckles, revealing a towering, muscular figure that glared blackly down at her.  Instinctively, Aeryn shrank back, biting her lip. The man's eyes raked cursorily across her and he snorted, his lip curling in a sneer.

"We're not open on Tuesdays, little mouse."  The sneer deepened.  "Not that you got the entrance fee anyway."  One beefy hand caught the door and started to close it.

"Wait," Aeryn pleaded, shoving one arm through the doorway to keep him from shutting her out.  "Ch-Charlie Brodman.  I need to see him."

The muscular man's thick black brows shot up and he snickered, showing even, white teeth.  "Charlie don't give handouts, mouse."  He caught her hand in a crushing grip and pushed it out of the doorframe.

"Flann sent me," she cried, but the door slammed shut in her face.

Just as she was about to sink to the ground and wail despairingly, the door jerked back open and the huge man squinted out at her, his brow knitting.  _"Flann_ sent you?" he asked, his thick voice incredulous.

"Yes," Aeryn exclaimed quickly.  Before he could shut the door on her again, she dug the rain-wrinkled card from her pocket and thrust it under the giant's nose.  He took it, glanced for a long moment at the writing, and then stepped away from the door, motioning that she was to step inside.

Almost ready to weep with relief, Aeryn entered.  The warm air inside the building enveloped her like a blanket.  There was a stairway leading downstairs before her, but the man opened a side door on one wall and ushered her through.

"You're lucky we ain't open tonight," the man grumbled as they ascended a narrow flight of stairs.  "The _krysha, _the boss man, he don't see no one on a show night."

At the top of the stairs he opened another door, and Aeryn hesitantly stepped into a large room.  It was lavishly decorated with framed art and Oriental rugs.  Large potted plants with enormous multicolored flowers bloomed in the corners of the room and next to the mahogany furniture.  In the brick and brass fireplace burning logs crackled merrily, filling the room with a comfortable heat.  A corpulent man wearing a red dressing gown was seated at the desk on the far wall; at their entrance, he looked up from the paper he was holding and frowned.

"Sorry, _krysha," _the muscular man muttered apologetically, motioning to Aeryn.  "It was Flann what told her to come here."

Charlie Brodman's ice-blue eyes fixed on her, and Aeryn suddenly felt about two inches tall.  Rainwater was dribbling down her legs onto the expensive rug, and her dirty hair was beginning to dry to her cheeks, leaving her skin uncomfortably itchy.  She squirmed inwardly, feeling like a grease spot on the elegant carpet, but forced her chin to stay up and tried to keep a pleading look from her face.

To her surprise, a genial smile split beneath Brodman's black handlebar moustache.  "So you're the Aeryn Blake my precious Flann keeps telling me about," he spoke in perfect English.  "My, but aren't you a little thing – and you must be chilled through in this weather!  Max –" he turned to the giant, who was just slipping from the room "—have Cook send up some coffee, please, and something to nibble on as well."

The door swung shut.  Brodman heaved himself out of his chair, gracefully slid around the desk, and clasped Aeryn's hands in his.

"Mr. Brodman, sir," Aeryn began, but was cut off as the heavy man made a noise of disgust.

"It's Charlie, pumpkin.  We're all on a first-name basis here."  His ice-blue eyes flickered across her face, to the collar on her neck, and up and down the length of her body.

"Flann said –" The words caught in her throat, and she had to swallow hard before continuing.  "She said that you were hiring.  Dancers," she stressed, feeling her cheeks flame beneath the scrutiny of his gaze.  

"That depends," said Brodman, twitching his moustache and winking.  "If I like what you have to offer, we may be able to work out an arrangement."

Aeryn nodded and swallowed again.

The large man's lips pursed and he dropped her hands, taking a step back.  One hand went up to stroke his moustache.

"Right, then."  He flicked a hand at her.  "You wish to be a dancer.  If you would, please, remove your clothes."

Aeryn's breath wheezed from her as if someone had punched her in the chest.  She stared up into Brodman's open, smiling face, and felt her stomach knot within her.  Suddenly the room was cold, oh so very cold, and she couldn't seem to stop herself from trembling.  

_Flann never mentioned anything about this, _a corner of her mind whispered.

At that moment Max re-entered the room, carrying a tray of coffee and scones.  The delicate silver service looked absurdly fragile in his huge hands, but not a drop was spilled as he moved to the table in front of the fire and laid it down.

"Max, come here," Brodman said, motioning to him.  "I want you to tell me what you think of her."  

Her hands were knotted so tightly in her the grimy fabric of her shirt that her knuckles went white.  She gaped at the two of them, a very faint buzzing beginning to ring on the edge of her hearing.  She couldn't speak, couldn't move – _couldn't breathe – _and oh, how dry her mouth had become –

Brodman cocked his head to one side.  "Well, go on, dear."

Her eyelids screwed shut, and she bit her lip violently, her breath gasping from her chest in sudden, short spurts.  She heard Max shuffle against the carpet, heard a bemused cough from Brodman, but she couldn't – _she couldn't –_

"Aeryn, love?"  The heavyset man's voice was muffled by the ringing in her ears.  "Pigeon, I'm afraid that if you don't take your clothes off, I won't be able to see if you're hirable or not."  

She almost ran.  She almost jumped from the room and hurtled herself down the stairs, through the door, back onto the streets where she could escape the sudden bands tightening around her chest.

And then the picture of the boy's corpse floated before her eyes.

"No?"  Brodman's voice was condescending, almost laughing, and something flared up within her.

Clamping her teeth down so hard on her lower lip that she drew blood, Aeryn grabbed the bottom of her shirt, tore it over her head, and flung it to the ground.  Her ragged shoes and socks were kicked off.  The baggy jeans peeled from her legs and she stood in her underwear, keeping her eyes tightly shut.

"Oh, my."  His voice was impossible to read.  "If you would, pet, I need you to take the rest off, too.  You understand, I'm sure."

Only the image of the dead boy and the teeth drawing blood from her lip kept Aeryn from passing out.  She drew a deep breath; an instant later, her bra and panties slithered down to join the rest of her clothes on the floor.

Silence filled the room like smoke.  She kept her eyelids screwed shut, her toes curling against the carpet as Brodman paced around her, his steps as slow and slinking as a jungle cat's.  

She tried desperately not to think.

"Well, Max," Brodman exclaimed thoughtfully after Aeryn thought she could bear the silence no more.  "What's your take?"

Max grunted.  "She's kinda pretty," he muttered, but the words were doubtful.  

"A little skinny," Brodman mused, "but a few good meals in her and those solid curves should fill right back in again…can you dance, pet?"

"I can learn," Aeryn choked between clenched teeth.

Soft fabric was suddenly thrust into her hand.  "Put this on," Brodman said, and Aeryn opened her eyes to find herself holding his dressing gown.  Trembling, she slipped into the voluminous fabric and tightened it around her body as she turned to look at him.  He was fetching something from the desk drawer, and as he straightened, she saw he was wearing a pair of red silk pajamas.  In one hand he held a flat piece of metal the size of a credit card, and as he stepped towards her, she drew back slightly, glancing at him warily.

He moved faster than she.  In one swift movement he grabbed her by the collar, stuck the strip of metal into the catch, and snapped it open.  

The loose robe forgotten, Aeryn's hands flew to her bare throat and clapped around skin she had not felt for four years.  A tingling rush flooded over her, and her powers – _her powers – _

A large oil painting trembled and a paperweight on Brodman's desk skidded from one corner to another.

"A telekinetic," Brodman exclaimed, his round face lighting up.  "Excellent … we don't have one of those yet…."

Aeryn's vision blurred as joyful tears started to pour down her face.  They were back, they were back, she could _feel, _she could _see…_emotions buffeted her, swirled around her, and she sobbed, clasping her hands over her mouth and smiling so hard that she felt her face would tear apart.

After a second, she realized that the two men were also wiping their eyes, their features set in surprise.  Belatedly, she realized that it had been so long since she had used her powers that she had forgotten what a surge of overwhelming emotion would do….

"I'm sorry –" Her words were thick, and she cleared her throat hurriedly "—I forgot – when I get excited –"

"Don't be sorry, precious," sniffed Brodman, dashing the tears from his eyes.  Max, sitting on the couch, was rubbing the base of his palms into his eyes, and his mouth was set in a firm, annoyed line.  "Telepathy, too.  My, what a package!"

Aeryn dragged a deep breath into her lungs, forcing her heart to slow down, trying to think a bit more clearly.  "That's not all I can do," she said.  "I can cast illusions, too, and –"  she cleared her throat "— I can absorb things.  From people.  When I touch them…."

Her voice broke away as Brodman collapsed suddenly into a chair.  She stopped, her jaw clenching reflexively.  He did not move for a moment, and then, as she started to be slightly worried, he raised his head and she saw the rapturous expression on his face.  Beaming, he stretched his hands towards her.

"My new star," he whispered blissfully.  "My new, beautiful flower.  The men will line up in droves for you, poppet.  Pay the price, risk a kiss – she will steal your heart and mind."  His ice-blue eyes twinkled.  "You need starve no longer, my pretty.  Rappaccini's Garden will be honored to house such a lovely blossom."  

Aeryn's hands went back to clasp her open robe.  Her neck felt bare, naked, and the sensation was so delicious that goose bumps trickled up and down her arms.  Her head turned and she stared at the pile of dirty, grimy clothes wadded in a heap on the Oriental carpet.  The red silk she wore was smooth and cool against her skin.  The smell of coffee, black and hot, wafted through the air, and her stomach gurgled.

Her eyes met Brodman's, and a tiny smile flickered her lips.

"Okay," she said.  

*          *            *

As she had promised, Aeryn was quick to learn.

She had moved into the upper stories of the building, where lived the other flowers of Rappaccini's Garden.  During the days and evenings when the club was closed, she had rehearsed the dance routines until her weak muscles had trembled and she was soaked with sweat.  She ate again and her form filled out, her eyes losing their hollowed appearance.  She learned to glamour her body with illusions, to use telekinesis to make her body move in fluid, unearthly ways, to direct her telepathy into men's minds and make them desire her.  And she learned how, with just a kiss, she could suck enough energy from a man to make him crumble at her feet, if she so desired.

It had been Oleander, a slender, ebony-skinned man with the ability to lift any object no matter how heavy, who had given Aeryn the epithet _Lily-of-the-Valley._

"Small, pale, sweet, lovely, and delicate," he had murmured to her one day.  "But containing one of the most potent poisons in the flower kingdom."

Charlie had loved the new nickname, and so it had stuck.

Her old collar had been replaced with a beautiful, delicate one that accompanied the lines of her pendant perfectly.  If she went outside the Garden she wore it, and clasped it on before she went to bed – a safety precaution; all the 'flowers' did the same, for powers could behave irrationally in the throes of dreams – but for the rest of the time her neck was bare.

Especially when she danced.

A year had passed.  Her wand she had stuffed into the bottom of her dresser.  The Lily-of-the-Valley had become one of the most popular dancers at Rappaccini's Garden.  Men, wealthy and powerful men, fought to claim her for private dances, for her smile, for one glance of her slate-blue eyes.

And always, always when she danced on the grand stage, the club was packed, and spectators paid dearly for the chance to risk the Lady Lily's kiss.

Only seldom now did she awake in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, her breath gasping shallowly in her throat as she drowned in a flood of memories that she thought she had locked away, while a mocking voice she had thought long dead whispered to her.

And in this way six years had passed.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Author's Note: I've been floored by all the reviews and letters I'm getting from all you readers.  You like me!  You really like me!  I'm so pleased that you're excited about the sequel.  I'm enjoying it, too, but alas -- working on this story means my original novel gets pushed to the back burner.  But I'm working out a plan so they both get the attention they deserve. This chapter is still a work in progress…I'll replace it with the 'polished' version later, but you all are so vocal about your desire for me to update that I thought I'd whet your appetite.  Plus, I don't know when I'll be able to update again…I have two job interviews next week, and I may be moving to Albany, NY within two weeks if the second interview goes well.  Expect the next chapter in…let's see…within three to four weeks.  I hope.  And FYI, my guidebook still is not in publication yet, but I hope it will be by September. 

            _Thanks always to my wonderful beta readers **Rosmerta **and **Kwinelf **(whose stories you can also find **here**), who keep me on track and let me know how horribly I'm getting out of character or messing up canon facts.  You should also check out **Lunalelle's** stories on Schnoogle, and in particular **Dangerous Games **at the Dark Arts._

            _Several notes:_

            _Charlie Brodman is inspired by the character of Harold Zidler in Moulin Rouge.  'Charlie' was the original name that Baz Luhrman chose for Zidler's character, and 'Brodman' is my bow to Jim Broadbend, the actor who played Zidler in the movie._

            _Cigarettes, especially American cigarettes, really cost that much in Russia.  Please note that since this story is set in 1999, the Russia of which I write has not yet undergone its currency change, so the ruble is still about 4,500 to the dollar.  Thanks to my ever-watchful beta **Rosmerta **for picking up on that fact !_

            _I received many replies about the "Lily-of-the-Valley" question raised in the last author's note…kudos go to **swampblossom **for figuring it out first!  The lily-of-the-valley is one of the most poisonous flowers in North America.  Check out Anne Perry's novel Weighed in the Balance if you have any doubts.  Second place goes to **musicmage **for finding the oh-so-interesting press release stating that sperm are attracted to the scent of this flower.  That fact is DEFINITELY going to appear in this story somewhere!_

_            Oh, and _**_Arie Tarou_**_…I would be most flattered if you wished to write Aeryn into your stories. ;D_

_            Ta, darlings.  I hope you enjoyed the chapter.  –AKB _


End file.
